


Playing with fire

by Shotgun_Cake



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, As One Does, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa Lives, Fake Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Real Flirting, Smut, and you’re not going to be the little bitch who chickens out first, but not even a hint of dubcon, but then he doesn't stop you, it's very common, nothing but enthusiastic consent in this house, well guess what happens then, well in this monastery, you know when you go to seduce your platonic best friend AS A JOKE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:54:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24624295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shotgun_Cake/pseuds/Shotgun_Cake
Summary: It’s as though everyone caught on that Berlín and Palermo look and behave like lovers. Because they do. Except where it counts.“Palermo, your boyfriend’s late”, Tokyo grumbles one morning.“I’m right on time!”, Andrés corrects as he barges in. “Please never question my punctuality.”~~~OR: The gang likes to joke about Berlín and Palermo acting like a couple. Martínhatesit. Andrés doesn't do anything about it.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 71
Kudos: 380





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Canon, you say? I don’t know her!  
> In this alternate universe The Kiss™ never happened, and Andrés returned to Martín’s side as a _friend_ after he got out of the MINT. They know they love each other, Andrés says it all the time, but that's just good ol’ Andrés being the extravagant weirdo that he is. Calling Martín his soulmate on the daily, yet no romance whatsoever. The power of friendship.
> 
> ~~~
> 
> UPDATE: this story [has been translated into Russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9657318) by the lovely [purrfect_angel](https://twitter.com/angel_purrfect), and I haven't recovered since.

It starts pretty innocently. Martín barely notices, at first. It’s Stockholm, of all people, who makes the first comment.

“You two look really adorable together.”

Without any mean intent behind it. Not even a hint of sarcasm. 

And, well, Palermo was basically _draped_ over Berlín when she said it. Holding onto both of his shoulders, praising him, supporting him, as they were raving about the plan to Denver and Stockholm. Finishing each other’s sentences more than once in the last five minutes.

So really, Martín does see how she could be confused about the nature of their relationship. He is quite confused himself, most of the time. His heart starts racing at the mere thought. His temperature is rising, and not even in the fun way. Martín is ready to laugh it off, of course. To make some stupid joke or flirt his way out of this sad, embarrassing conversation.

But then Andrés surprises him. He doesn’t deny the assumption.

He just smiles at her - a beautiful, sacred thing - and keeps going on about why securing the Governor of the Bank during the first hour will be crucial. And Martín just tunes it out, watches as Denver quickly whispers to his wife that no, Berlín and Palermo are not _together-_ together. Not like that. 

It’s only that night, as he lies alone in his bed, that Martín understands what he felt when Andrés straight up ignored - worse, _encouraged_ \- the assumption that they were together.

It was anger.

Misplaced and futile, he’s sure. But still. Bright red anger, pounding in his temples and constricting his chest. Anger at himself, for that hopeful feeling he couldn’t contain when, for a few seconds, he lived in a world where he and Andrés _did_ look adorable together. But mostly anger at Andrés, for not denying it. For smiling and brushing it off, instead of going _‘oh, I’m not gay’_ or _‘Palermo and I are just very good friends’._ Martín needs that truth to be spoken, to be reminded to him. So he might stop _hoping_ , so much, all the time. 

How dare he not give him at least that? Honesty. Instead of letting them both bask in the ambiguity. 

Martín brushes it off, an isolated incident. 

Until it isn’t.

It’s as though everyone - _everyone_ \- caught on that Berlín and Palermo look and behave like lovers. Because they do - except where it counts - and the gang collectively decided to mess with Martín. 

“Palermo, your boyfriend’s late”, Tokyo grumbles one morning, as they’re setting things up for class.

“I’m right on time, Tokyo!”, Andrés corrects as he barges in, loud and grand and revolting. “Please never question my punctuality.”

Martín almost drops the papers he’s holding. Because Tokyo just said two things that were _incorrect_ , and Andrés only corrected one of them.

Which is very unlike him. Especially when it comes to Tokyo.

That evening, at dinner, it’s Nairobi’s turn to be utterly infuriating. They’re all raving about the delicious mushroom risotto Andrés prepared for everyone, when she pronounces the offending words.

“ _Por dios_ , Berlín, you’re an amazing cook!”, she cheers around a mouthful of mushroom. “You’re like the perfect little housewife! Palermo, you should get on that.”

Martín’s ears are burning as Andrés bursts out laughing. Not mocking, but unbearable anyway.

“He should be so lucky! I’m a wonderful husband. Aren’t I _Palermo_?”

And the bastard _grabs his hand_ on the fucking table. All flirtatious smiles and soft touches. 

“I know of at least five divorced women who would disagree”, Martín manages to snap back, laughing with the others at his witty retort. 

He makes a grab for his fork, to free his hand from Andrés’s tender grip.

Once more, Andrés did not react as Martín thought he would, and it is simply unacceptable. Because Martín shouldn’t get blindsided like this. Andrés has always been unpredictable, of course. But there are some constants in his behavior. One of which is never letting others assume he and Martín are together. Even as a joke. Especially as a joke. He always denies it, reassures whoever he’s talking to that he does like women, very much, too much for his own good actually. That he does love Martín, with passion, with friendship. That he is his soulmate, but not in that manner. 

So Andrés suddenly playing along with the assumptions is something new. Something Martín did not see coming, and that he loathes. 

Because it feels fucking amazing. 

Andrés’s falsely flirtatious attitude with him, his hand caressing his, and his stares, soft and playful, are not something Martín should ever experience. He would love it too much. Get used to it. It would break him.

Hopefully, it’s a glitch. A temporary fad, that shall come and go, just as so many things Andrés experimented with. Like when he caught a sudden passion for gardening and murdered, oh, so many plants. Or when he fancied himself a sculptor and designed atrocities for Martín to collect and cherish. Or every time he got a new wife.

Yes, probably just a fad.

Martín will not be trapped for much longer in the delicious hell of having to play house with Andrés, dying a little every time he does.

Except he will.

Everyone plays along. 

If Palermo agrees too fast to a suggestion Berlín made, Denver will shout “whipped!”. 

But if he disagrees, if they start arguing - in a reasonable way, not _‘shrieking and foaming at the mouth’_ like it was falsely reported - then suddenly they’re “having a domestic dispute” and “need marriage counseling”. 

Once, as he’s sharing a pleasant moment with Andrés, Sergio - shocking - and Raquel, all four of them having coffee on the patio, she goes and ruins it all by commenting on how it _“looks like a double date”_. It does. That’s not the point.

When Marsella catches Palermo staring at Berlín’s portrait, beautiful and regal, he asks if he needs help hanging it in his room. The worst part is that it’s a good idea. Martín wants to push him out the window, him and his fucking ferret.

Andrés knows of Martín’s discomfort about the situation. Of course he noticed. That’s his whole thing, knowing Martín. Understanding his ideas and his troubles with barely a word between them. And yet, the pattern persists.

Naturally, Palermo always has a devastating comeback ready, and snaps back at each and every one of his colleagues. He will not tolerate these remarks for a second. The _disrespect_.

But Berlín? Berlín remains silent. Or he smiles. Laughs. Plays along graciously. Puts his hands all over Palermo like a friendly octopus. 

Who is this man, tormenting him, and what the fuck did he do to the _real_ Andrés de Fonollosa? 

Martín is angry and sad and, against his best efforts, hopeful once again. He needs to put an end to this.

And that’s just what he’s trying to do, that evening, when he ambushes Helsinki straight out of the shower. Well, _straight_ might not be the word he’s looking for right now.

“ _Hola, guapo!_ ”, he catcalls, leaning against the wall of the corridor seductively.

He was hoping to catch him in just a towel, which would have been very convenient for his agenda, but tragically Helsinki is fully dressed. 

“Hi, Palermo”, he replies with a smile. “Do you need the bathroom?”

“Depends, are you coming too?”

“I just got out, I don’t need to- oh.”

Helsinki looks stunned as it dawns on him that he’s being hit on right now. Martín takes the opportunity to get right into his personal space.

“Tell me _gordito_ , have you ever seen my room? I feel like you should. Maybe you’ll like it better than yours. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you drop by and look for yourself?”

He’s working his charms on Helsinki in full force now, and he knows it’s effective. He sees it in the way he looks back at him with crinkled eyes and the hint of a smile. 

“Are you- are you single?”, Helsinki asks, and it’s so hesitant, so unsure. 

Martín’s fists clench at that. He knows immediately what Helsinki is asking. _So there’s really nothing between Berlín and you?_ He wants to grab him by the beard and scream in his face. He powers through and plays coy instead. 

“Of course I’m single, big boy! What do you think I’m trying to do here?”

Poor Helsinki doesn’t get the hint.

“I thought maybe you were wi-”

“Well I’m not!”, he interrupts, harsher than he planned to. “And I’m not doing anything right now”, he adds with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Helsinki’s answer never comes because suddenly, there’s an arm around Martín’s waist and a noisy kiss against his temple.

“There he is, _mi ingeniero favorito!_ ”, Andrés loudly proclaims, and the hand stays where it is as he keeps talking. “I can’t find the last calculations for the inter-connecting antechamber. Did you take them?”

“They’re on your desk, just like I told you they were”, he sighs, and he’s annoyed, but Andrés’s cologne is all around him, and the daggers he’s sending with his eyes are going completely unnoticed. 

“Well, now that I have you on hand, let’s go through the numbers together, shall we?”

And Martín should say ‘ _not now ’_ and ‘ _I'm busy ’_ and ‘ _Helsinki is standing right here, don’t you just ignore him like that you selfish prick!’_

But _‘let’s go through the numbers together’_ is an oddly enticing proposition. It’s as good as it gets, really. Still, before Martín lets himself be dragged away, boneless and pliant, he mouths the words _“pay me a visit tonight”_ in Helsinki’s direction, and gives him a wink for good measure. From the looks of it, Helsinki got his message loud and clear.

Which is why it’s such a disappointment, that night, when it appears Helsinki got lost on his way to Martín’s bedroom. He doesn’t try anything with him afterwards.

With each passing day, he gets angrier at Andrés. More flustered in his presence, too. Frustrated and impatient. He tries not to show it, but Andrés knows him, senses his tension as they basically spend their days joined at the hip.

“You should rest for a few hours, Palermo”, Andrés suggests, one day after lunch, and he’s not exactly ordering him around, but it’s close.

“I’m good, _Berlín_ , thanks”, he bites back, and he’s never sounded so passive aggressive in his life.

“Oh oh, Mommy and Daddy are fighting”, Tokyo jokes, and Palermo just keeps staring at Berlín.

He refuses to take the bait, for once. Waits to see if Andrés will let the vile comment go unpunished. Martín has been doing all the heavy lifting for _weeks_ now. Let’s see how Andrés reacts when he stops making it easy for him.

“Tokyo, that’s wildly inappropriate.”

Sergio. Fucking _Sergio_ , of all people, was the one to come to his rescue.

“Unbelievable.”

Martín retreats to his room and sulks for a while, his emotions all over the place. Then he actually tries to take a nap, not because Andrés told him to, but because he’s fucking tired, okay? They don’t have class this afternoon anyway - Nairobi and Bogotá are doing practice dives in the flooded tank - and Martín takes the opportunity to rest for a while. 

He tosses and turns in his bed for a few minutes. In spite of his exhaustion, he’s also bursting with pent up energy. He would have gladly gone to Helsinki for that problem, but apparently that’s not an option now.

This whole situation reeks of high school drama. Going to classes, enduring mean comments, and being sexually frustrated on top of it all. Hell, he’s even got the unrequited feelings for the popular straight guy. That’s gotta be a high school bingo right there!

He’s not even that mad at the gang for their comments. They all joke around and mock each other all the time. They’re a bunch of thieves and criminals, Martín never expected them to be polite and mild-mannered - he would have hated that more, actually. 

He’s mad at Andrés. 

For tolerating the remarks, when he knows Martín hates them. 

For all this pretend-flirting, when he knows Martín loves him. 

He’s mad, because Andrés watches in delight as Martín squirms and suffers, and it pleases him. Entertains him. Or maybe this is what their friendship has always been like, and Martín is just the last one to get the memo. At least, he knows where he stands. 

He falls asleep knowing full well he will not be getting a break from Andrés, even in his dreams.

Martín spends the rest of the afternoon in a better mood. He actually feels rested, for once, cheerful even. Bogotá and Nairobi did well in the practice flooded tank they installed. The plan is really coming to fruition with this group, and he will drink to that, at least. 

So does everybody, which might be the secret behind the great time they all had at dinner. Good alcohol and a cause for celebration. They even share one last drink when dinner is over.

“To Nairobi, the gang’s little mermaid!”, Helsinki cheers, causing her to pinch his cheek like he’s the cutest child she’s ever seen.

A more-than-tipsy Bogotá wonders out loud if that makes him her prince charming, but Nairobi wisely relegates him to the status of fish sidekick, at best. Andrés and Martín share a laugh at the face Bogotá pulls.

As they’re all cramped in the kitchen, cleaning up the many glasses they’ve used, Andrés clasps a firm hand on Martín’s shoulder. 

“I think you and I should practice being submerged in the tank as well”, he suggests with a crooked smile, like he’s just invited Martín to a candlelit dinner. 

“That’s a waste of time”, Martín objects, because it’s too tempting. “We’re going to be way too busy inside the bank anyway. We won't go into the vault ourselves.”

“I’m not arguing with you right now”, Andrés decides, and it is final. “We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”

Bogotá just happens to be within earshot, and jumps on them with annoying enthusiasm. 

“Come on Berlín, you don’t need to put on a show like that for us!”, he laughs. “We all know you won’t wait _‘til tomorrow._ No one cares if he comes to your room in the middle of the night. I won’t say a word!”

And that’s only when Bogotá mimics locking his mouth shut and throwing away the key, that they both realize he simply had one too many. Still, Andrés doesn’t wince at the crude insinuation, waits for him to step in, as usual. He doesn’t. Bogotá’s just drunk, and Martín’s burned out. 

“Nothing?”, Andrés taunts. “Fine, I’ll keep my door open then.”

He fucking _winks at him_ before making his exit. 

And that’s Martín’s breaking point. 

He knows Andrés is just teasing. But a wink and an open invitation to meet him in his room are not something he was ready for, on this fine evening. This is _Martín’s move_ . Not that it was very effective on Helsinki last week, but good god is it working wonders on him right now. Except it wasn’t a _move._ Not for Andrés. It was a joke. Yet another playful comment meant to amuse their audience. 

Bogotá did laugh, saw the humor in these words, even in his drunken state.

This is too much. This is cruel. Deliberately so.

Martín’s anger only grows as he gets ready for the night. Pacing back and forth in his bedroom, he tries and fails to calm himself. So much for feeling relaxed and cheery. He’s a ball of nerves. A powder keg about to explode. 

That was it! The last straw that broke the camel’s back. Martín thought he could endure it for much longer, well, he was wrong.

He’s got half a mind to go and confront Andrés right this instant. 

_Fine, I’ll keep my door open then._

How funny would it be right now if he took him up on his offer? Showed up at his door in nothing but his pajama pants and open robe, bottle of wine in hand and ready to tango. 

Martín does laugh at the thought, because Andrés would be absolutely baffled. He wouldn’t know what to do with Martín if he went all in, used all his best tricks on him and actually gave him a taste of what he asked for. Andrés would be so deeply uncomfortable. Mortified. Would definitely regret his own actions leading up to this point. The torment he’s been inflicting on Martín for weeks now. Maybe that’s the one thing that would make him stop.

And even though Martín only entertained the idea of confronting Andrés as a coping mechanism, now the notion is there, in his brain, and there is nothing he’d rather do. If only to laugh in his face as he squirms away from Martín’s unwanted advances. To witness his embarrassment. His remorse.

Martín doesn’t have a bottle of wine on hand right now, so scotch will have to do. Not that he intends on drinking it. It’s all for show. For the _aesthetic_ of an old-timey seduction attempt. 

Before he can think better of it, he’s standing at Andrés’s doorstep. He did close his dressing gown, though. For now. The door is slightly ajar, the light still on, inside. Andrés speaks before he can knock.

“Do come in, Martín.”

The nerve of this man.

He enters the bedroom, closes the door behind himself. Andrés is reading at his desk, still wearing his suit. His jacket is folded on the back of his chair, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up above his elbows. Martín stops himself from gawking and sets the bottle down, reaching for Andrés’s record player instead. He makes the most suggestive choice possible and puts on a jazz music. 

The first enticing notes make Andrés look up at him, at least.

“Anything on your mind?”, he asks with a smirk, and Martín cannot wait to wipe it off his face.

“Just coming by for a chat”, he says as he pours two glasses of scotch he has no intention of touching. “You did invite me, remember?”

“I suppose I did”, Andrés answers, finally closing his book.

He stands up from his desk and tries to loosen his tie. Martín’s hands are already meeting his, helpful as always.

Andrés lets him do it and closes his eyes as he listens to the music. 

Martín sets the tie down on the desk and undoes the first two buttons of Andrés’s shirt, as he always does when a tie is taken off. Then Martín undoes a third button. A firm hand is clasped around his wrist before he reaches the fourth.

“That’s enough, Martín.”

“Oh, you want me to take you dancing first?”, Martín laughs, taking advantage of Andrés’s hand on him to twirl in his arms. The belt of his robe comes undone as he spins, exposing his chest. He makes no attempt to cover himself up.

Andrés lets go of him, and Martín loops his arms around his neck, swaying seductively. Not only doesn’t Andrés stop him, he puts both hands on Martín’s waist, starts moving with him.

“A dance sounds nice.”

Andrés is calling his bluff.

He knows what Martín is up to. But doesn’t stop him yet. Waits for him to give up. Good luck with that.

They keep swaying for a while, a slow dance, and for a second Martín just enjoys their closeness. Andrés’s eyes on him. His scent and his warmth.

But he’s a man on a mission. And if this doesn’t set him off, Martín needs to change tactics. 

He gets closer, until their bodies are pressed together. Andrés doesn’t step back, but Martín knows he’s raising his eyebrows in surprise right now. He’s too close to see his face, his chin propped on Andrés’s shoulder. 

Enjoying it way more than he should, Martín starts to slide his hands down Andrés’s back, stroking the tense muscles he feels under his shirt. Very tense. Finally, some reaction.

Emboldened by his friend’s visible discomfort, he drags his nose along Andrés’s neck, smelling him. Provoking him. A challenge and a question. 

“Martín, what are you doing?”

 _Finally_. He leans his head back to look at his face.

“Should I stop?”

Andrés just gives a brief hum, closes his eyes. Doesn't reply. 

So he’s choosing to be difficult. Well, two can play that game. The goal is clear. It's a contest. A game of chicken, if you will. Andrés knows Martín is trying to embarrass him, and refuses to show his discomfort just yet. Dares Martín to really go for it and make a fool of himself before Andrés inevitably pushes him away. 

Oh, it’s on. He thinks _he_ will back away after that? Martín has no shame. Andrés should know it by now.

Going for the one thing that will for sure warrant a reaction, Martín drags his hands down Andrés’s back once more and, provocatively, lays his hands firmly on his ass. Squeezing. 

Well, you can check that off his bucket list.

Andrés opens his eyes right away, stares at him in surprise. Martín has won the game.

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I making _you_ uncomfortable?”, he taunts. 

Andrés grabs both of Martín’s arms and pulls them away harshly, taking a step back. Huffing. The disbelief, quite clear on his face.

“So this is what this is about. You came here to punish me. They’re just jokes, Martín.”

“No they’re not, not from you”, he snaps back, and his tone is dry now. He’s dropped the seductive gimmick entirely.

Andrés starts pacing back and forth in front of him, and he has the gall to look _amused_.

“And what am I guilty of exactly? Laughing at a few jokes? Playing nice with the others? Please, do list my crimes before you carry out my sentence.”

“You’ve never done that before”, Martín explains, frustrated. He can think of nothing besides touching him again. He can’t. Not anymore. “You’ve never let it fly, when people joked about us. When they _assumed._ ”

“Let them assume what they want”, Andrés declares. “I don’t concern myself with their opinion.”

“Do you concern yourself with _my_ opinion?”, Martín barks.

Andrés pauses for a moment.

“I’m surprised a little banter is getting you this worked up. I certainly don’t enjoy seeing you like this.”

It’s a lie and they both know it. Andrés _loves_ watching Martín in this state. Annoyed and flustered. It’s entertaining to him. A rare treat. 

“It’s not just banter anymore. It’s a dozen strangers laughing at my face. You among them.” 

Martín sounds whiny and weak, and he hates it. Hates how quickly Andrés turned the tables on him, instead of letting him breathe for a fucking second. 

For a while, neither of them speaks. Only then does Martín realize the music has stopped. It’s just silence and tension between them.

“Fine”, Andrés finally says, and he sighs deeply, like he’s giving up a hobby he enjoyed dearly. “If it bothers you so much, I won’t let it happen again.”

Martín is baffled at that. At Andrés simply agreeing to what he asked. He nearly jumps when Andrés takes a step toward him. His hands find their way to Martín’s shoulders, rubbing at his tense muscles. Trying to help him calm down.

“If I may ask”, Andrés starts, and it can’t be good. “How do you expect sneaking into my room in the middle of the night will stifle the rumors about our- involvement?”

“You’re the one who publicly invited me, aren’t you?”, Martín corrects him. “I simply called your bluff.”

Oh, how Andrés doesn’t like that. He takes his hands off Martín.

“No, you were not”, he says, and how did he get angry so quickly? “You were trying to embarrass me. To make me uncomfortable and sorry for my actions. This wasn’t a test. It was revenge.”

He sounds offended that Martín would do that to him. That the thought has even occurred to him, to punish Andrés this way.

“It _was_ a test”, Martín insists. “I wanted to know how long it would take for you to catch on and push me away. Longer than I thought.”

Martín wants to rub it in his face. _Look, Andrés. I got my hands all over you and you let me. You were too stubborn to stop me quickly and admit you were wrong. How ashamed must you feel, how dense._

“Carry on, then”, Andrés says and it doesn’t make sense.

“What do you-”

“You little act. This- _seduction number_ to make me regret having offended you.”

Martín just stares, not sure he understands what he’s being asked. Afraid he _does_ understand.

“I suppose you had it all planned out, didn’t you Martín? What was next, after the dance? How many steps?”

Oh, this is bad.

“Andrés, it's not necessary…”

“No, please, do tell. In fact, forget I ever interrupted you. Keep going. How far were you willing to go to make your point? Show me.”

Andrés stares at him confidently.

“You won't like it”, Martín tries again.

Andrés just puts the record back on and lays his hands on his hips again, leading the dance. This is absolutely insane, but when Andrés holds him close, his mind is racing with the possibilities. With this once in a lifetime opportunity that was just given to him. A sanction and a gift.

Martín wants to pace himself. Draw it out for as long as he can. Knows Andrés will put an end to this dangerous, ridiculous game at some point. But not just yet. 

They dance for a while, as Martín thinks _._ They are staring into each other's eyes, and there is nothing _just friendly_ about it. Both of them are playing their part.

Martín ends their dance and pulls him close again, pressing their bodies together. Andrés isn't even fazed. He’s nuzzling Martín's hair and taking in his scent. Playing along. This is getting way too close to a romantic moment. Dangerous territory. They need to put a stop to this. 

Trying to rile him up, Martín pushes him backward, leads him toward his bed, and looks at him expectantly. He’s almost certain Andrés will laugh at him. He doesn’t. He sits as instructed. Lets Martín take the lead. Okay, he’s really doing this, then. 

With his heart aflutter, Martín straddles Andrés on the bed, wraps his hands behind his neck, and waits. When Andrés raises an eyebrow at him, he knows he can't back out now. Martín leans in and kisses him.

The very moment he feels Andrés’s lips against his, he drops the act. This isn’t a battle for dominance and this isn’t playful. Not for Martín at least. He kisses him like he always dreamed he would, holding his face in his hands, savoring him. 

Andrés kisses him back in the same way, and it’s intoxicating. His mouth is warm and pliant. Like he’s following Martín’s lead. Like he’s never been kissed before. In a way, he hasn’t. Not by a man. Not by him.

Martín hears himself breathing hard and moaning into it, knows he’s being too passionate. Too tender. He’s showing his hand. And yet Andrés is still kissing him, without any obvious disgust. With intent. Martin wonders how long he can keep up this charade before he gets bored and pushes him away. He hopes Andrés won't be too violent. Just a tiny bit rough, maybe. Leave a mark on him, a memento of his touch. 

As if on cue, Andrés bites down on his lip. Martín tries to match the intensity. But suddenly there is nothing against his mouth and he’s kissing into the air. 

And there is something on Martín’s neck. Because Andrés starts trailing kisses down his throat. How is this happening to him right now? He’s nibbling and biting as he goes, and it is divine. 

Martín would be a fool not to enjoy it while it lasts. 

Well apparently, he is that fool, because he has to stop this. He needs to save himself. Summoning all the willpower he's capable of, he finally speaks. 

“And I guess, how I planned it, you would have already stopped me by now. Understood you were wrong, apologized for your rude behavior, and promised not to do it again.”

Andrés laughs softly against his neck, and it tickles in a delightful way.

“I thought we'd established that I'm not going to stop anything.”

So he wants _Martín_ to back away. Predictable. Taking the hint, he leans back - away from the tantalizing lips on his neck, and awkwardly stands up.

“Andrés, I get it, you don't have to-”

“Of course I don't have to”, Andrés interrupts. “I don’t _have to_ do anything.”

Before Martín knows what’s happening, Andrés is grabbing him by the hips and turning him around, throwing him onto the bed. His bed. Andrés’s bed. Martín is on it. Because Andrés slammed his body onto it. Remarkable. 

Martín is incredibly turned on by this show of strength, completely disregarding the fact that he resisted about as much as a rag doll the moment Andrés’s hands were on him. A puppet he can bend to his will, if he so desires.

Andrés follows on the bed, hovers in the air over him. Predatory. 

“I'm not playing your game anymore, Martín”, he mutters, as if it means something.

“What are you sayi-”

“Here's what I'm saying.”

And Andrés kisses him. Again. Martín barely kisses him back, his brain racing with the implications. They're way past Andrés just _not stopping him_. He's actively kissing him. He's- he’s groaning against his lips.

This doesn't make any sense. This is too good. This is wrong. He has to speak out. 

“Andrés?”

That’s all he can say. Andrés pulls his face away and sighs deeply. 

“Think, Martín. Have you ever known me to do anything but what I want?”

And just like that, it makes sense. This is Andrés's convoluted way of telling him he wants him. He desires him. He loves him, maybe.

This time, Martín goes for the kiss. He grabs his neck and pulls him close like he still fears Andrés will run away at any time. He won't. This is his room. He would throw Martín out, then.

_Oh._

He won't throw him out either, no. Not if the hardness Martín feels pressing against his hip is any indication. How long has he been this hard, just from him? From kissing him and being near him?

Still kissing him, Martín takes a hold of his hips, firmly. He aligns his own body, positions them both until Andrés can feel him too. His own cock, rock hard under his pajama pants, dragging against his, and Andrés has the audacity to groan.

Then he leans into it, thrusts against him, and for a glorious moment, they're teenagers at a party, dry humping with their first crush, and everything is brand new and exciting and absolute bliss.

Oh no, they're not doing this. Like hell Martín is going to let this man come like this. Without seeing him. Without touching him and tasting him.

He breaks away from the kiss and his hands move to Andrés's pants. He tries to pull them down, wants to turn them both around.

“Get on your back”, Martín whispers, his voice breathless and broken. “Let me-” 

He licks his lips provocatively and he knows the offer is clear. 

But Andrés is having none of it.

“I don't think so”, he decides, stern and final.

There is something really hurtful about Martín's offer of a blowjob being rejected. This one, he really wanted to give.

Andrés stays above him and undresses him, not that there is much to take off anyway. He kisses and bites both shoulders as he slides off his robe, takes in the sight of him. Martín knows he's blushing, which is just absurd. Andrés has seen him shirtless before. But he has never _looked_ at him shirtless. Not with hunger in his eyes and a fucking hard on Martin can still feel against his thigh. 

Then it all goes so fast. Andrés puts his mouth on his throat, leaves a kiss there, then licks a long, quick trail down his chest, his stomach. And he slides down his pants, unwraps the last part of Martin like he's a fucking Christmas gift. He looks at him, all of him, and Martín feels a pinch inside his gut. One last fear. That Andrés will not like it. Will remember he's very much a man, not what he wants. 

“Look at you”, he just says, and there is so much wonder in it. Martín risks a peek at Andrés's face, and cannot study it before the man fucking dives in and takes him in his mouth. Martín gasps and moans because he wants to shout. It's not tentative, it's not hesitant. Andrés knows what he wants to do to Martín, and he does it. His hand meets his lips on Martín's shaft, strokes what he cannot take in his mouth. 

Andrés, heterosexual, five-time married Andrés, is sucking his cock like his life depends on it, and Martín feels like coming just at the thought. 

He hears, feels the man groaning, like a hum of approval. Like he's been wanting to touch him, to taste him, and the experience is living up to his expectation. Andrés is not only _not repulsed_ by him, he's savoring him. That man is fucking insane. 

This isn't even the best blowjob he's received, not by far. But enthusiasm beats technique any day. Martín wants to laugh and cry at the mere thought of it. Andrés keeps making those noises, and he can't look at him. 

Martín won’t let it end like that, and places a hand gently on his head, pulling him away. He was close.

Andrés looks mildly angry at the interruption. Like he needs to do this, refuses to be anything but great at something. As though his plans fell through and Martín is being very rude right now. 

“Fine, what do you want then?”, he snaps, impatient.

“I want you inside me.”

This is almost a plea. Andrés is no longer annoyed.

“We will need-”, he starts to ask.

“Yeah, in my room.”

And so the journey begins. 

Martín pulls his pants back up, ridiculously tented as they are, and the both of them stumble into the dark, from Berlín's room to Palermo's. They’re as quiet and as fast as they can, in their state. 

Martín was half afraid that the second they left the room, left the moment they'd just shared, it would all crack and vanish. But the way Andrés looks at him when he closes Martin's door, the way he shoves him against it to kiss him again, undress him again... The moment is still very much there.

Gosh, if Martín is dreaming right now, he's going to be fucking devastated.

Andrés grabs Martin's forearm and drags him across the room, stops next to the bed. And then he starts undressing, as if it's nothing. Martín knows better than to try and pull at his precious clothes. Andrés takes his time, carefully folding his shirt on the chair next to him. Martín simply admires him. Follows his movements, graceful and precise. When he's down to his underwear - his tented, silk boxers - Martín pulls him close again. Presses his naked body against his, and Andrés lets him. 

His hands immediately run down Andrés's body, he wants to touch him, needs to see him. But as he's hooking curious fingers under the seam of the fabric, Andrés slaps his hand away. 

“No. Not what we're doing right now.”

“What then?”

Andrés leans in and speaks into his ear.

“You will teach me how to pleasure you, Martín.”

A shiver courses through his body, and Andrés chuckles as he feels it through their embrace. Barely breaking contact, Martín opens the drawer of his nightstand. 

He gets what they need, lies down on the bed, and pulls Andrés toward him until he's kneeling between his open legs. With practiced ease, Martín pours lubricant onto Andrés's hand. He's enthralled as Andrés coats his fingers, slowly, carefully, and then lets his hand be guided by Martín towards his entrance. 

After some shifting from them both, a single finger breaches him. Slow. Curious. 

This is so odd. Unnecessary.

It would be much easier, much more efficient, if Martín were doing this himself. But Andrés did ask - ordered, actually - and Martín hasn't been known to refuse him anything. He's not going to start today. 

It's nothing like how Martín imagined it would be - and he did imagine it. Quite a lot, actually. Andrés brings his left hand to Martín's hip, caressing him, grounding him, as his right hand slides between his legs, a second finger probing and curling inside of him.

There's a lot of talking. Usually, they always know how to act, can read each other without a word. They’ve had almost entirely silent conversations, understanding each other to the smallest detail. As natural as breathing. But tonight, in Martín's room, with Andrés's fingers inside of him, they talk, and they try, and they explain all of it.

It's not awkward, just different. Uncharted territory for them.

But when Martín's commanding voice goes _“curl them right here”_ and Andrés obeys, it's all worth it. If only for the look of pride on his face as he hears Martín's strangled moan, watches him arch his back, and notices as he twists the bed-sheet into clenched fists.

“Just fuck me, Andrés”, he whines, and it's a breathy, pathetic little thing.

Andrés shakes his head disapprovingly at his impatience. He knows he's not ready yet. 

There is a demented grin on his lips as he repeats the movement of his fingers again, and again, eyes trained on Martín's face, revelling in his reaction. 

Martín's eyelids are fluttering shut in pleasure, but he will not let them. Not with Andrés just above him, looking like that. His face is one of pure bliss. Even as he's pleasuring Martín, Andrés is the one getting off on it. Greedy for Martín's pleasure, high on the power he holds over him. 

Another prolonged moan starts escaping his throat, a sinful, feral sound, and he promptly slaps both of his hands against his mouth. 

“You will put those hands away Martín. Let me see your face. Let me hear you.”

Fucking hell. 

“The goddamn monks are gonna hear me”, he protests, but he does remove his hands, lets his twitching fingers dig into the bed-sheets again. 

Andrés's next words are much softer, just as careful as his left hand massaging his hip. 

“May I?”

Martin smiles, and Andrés slips another finger inside him. 

He'd been just about to ask him to. It's starting already. Their unspoken understanding. 

Martín wants to stop him, is dying for Andrés to fuck him already. But Andrés is right not to let him rush things. 

It takes a while and Andrés doesn't complain, patient and careful. He's learning a craft. Martín is that one instrument he doesn't yet know how to play, and he is furious about it. And fascinated.

That's why he isn’t allowing Martín to quiet his own reactions. The soft sounds are guiding Andrés as he studies Martín's body. They help him understand him. Teach him how to unravel him. 

Martín isn't accustomed to this balance between them. It's odd, almost jarring. And yet, the frown of concentration on Andrés's face as he takes his time, shows so much care, has Martin melting, a trembling mess around his fingers. 

“Andrés, I'm ready.”

“You're not lying to me, are you Martín?”

He knows him well. 

“Not this time.” 

Andrés carefully slides out his fingers, disappointingly so, and goes to wipe his hands with the tissues on his nightstand. Martín makes a snap decision.

“You should- you should lie on your back.”

Andrés raises an eyebrow at that, and Martín is ready to fight his objection. He knows what he's doing. Andrés doesn't, for once. Let Martín do this. 

To his surprise, Andrés silently complies, and it's Martin's turn to unwrap the delicious gift that found its way into his bed. He savors the moment, and grins as he removes the last piece of clothing. 

As expected, he’s beautiful. A vision. Andrés naked, hard, leaking for him, is a sight to behold. Martín can't help but to lean in for a taste. To have a lick, a swirl of his tongue around the head. Just for a few seconds. Andrés stifles a groan, low in his throat, and it's all he can do not to drop everything and swallow him whole. One day, he will make a feast out of this man. Not tonight.

He grabs a condom in the open drawer behind him, anticipation crackling in the air like electricity. Martín tears the foil open. He pinches the tip of the condom between his fingers as he unrolls it expertly on Andrés's cock, and his face tells him everything he needs to know. In a few seconds, Andrés will be inside a man, and no one will be able to call him straight ever again. Good riddance.

Martín pours more lube over the length, gives it a firm stroke, and positions himself above Andrés. Straddling his lap. There is so much he wants to say, in this moment. But Andrés knows already, doesn't he? Martín just meets eyes, and slowly, deliberately sinks down onto him. He lowers himself until he's full, until there is no more of Andrés for him to take. He stills. 

Andrés's hands find his hips and keep him steady. He stares up in awe. And Martín leans down to kiss him, the taste of Andrés still on his tongue. He winces, but his thumb wipes roughly at Martin's lips, and he kisses him again.

Martín's heart soars at how eager Andrés is being. How uncharacteristically affectionate. 

He pulls away from his lips and starts moving. Up and down, slowly at first. There is no pain, Andrés made sure of that, but there is pressure. He can't help but moan at the feeling of being filled so completely.

It's way too intense, too much, too fast. Andrés looks at him like he's seeing him for the first time. His gaze is piercing. Revolting. As he exerts himself above Andrés, Martín's eyes are threatening to close again. From effort and pleasure. From embarrassment. But he fights the impulse. He wants to keep looking at Andrés, to always remember the image of him in that state. Lying down, staring up at him. As if he's mesmerized by him. Stunned by the things Martín is doing to him. 

Martín is very aware of his own throbbing cock, bouncing insolently between them, for Andrés to see, to feel. A token of his desire, constant reminder of his unmistakable manhood. But Andrés doesn't shy away from looking, from staring. He looks at all of Martín, drags his eyes across his entire body. And his own arousal only seems to persist. To build. 

Martín's thighs are starting to shake already. Sweat coats his nape and runs down his back. He feels truly alive. 

Andrés sits up, presses their foreheads together, and starts guiding the movement of Martín's hips onto his cock. Andrés's eyes are half closed and yet they do not leave his, their noses brushing together. Martín finds the whole experience deeply sensual. Tantric, even. He almost wants to stop moving and slow down this moment. Live in it for a while. 

But Andrés has other plans. He leans his head to the side, settles his face in the crook of Martín's neck. 

He doesn't let Martín just ride his cock anymore. His hips are thrusting upwards, meeting him halfway. His thrusts are deeper than Martín’s were. More focused. He moans as he combs his fingers through Andrés's hair.

His face is nestled into the side of his throat, and Martín can feel the throbbing of his own pulse point against Andrés's lips. Kissing. Nibbling. His breath is heavy on him as he stifles his groans against the burning skin of his neck. 

But Martín can still hear the sounds of Andrés's pleasure, can feel them on his skin. The impossible notion makes his hands tighten into fists, pulling at his hair. 

Andrés doesn't complain, but his fingers dig deeper into Martín's hips in response. One hand moves to cup his ass, and Andrés sinks harder into him, almost angrily. Martín moans at the biting and the suction he feels against his throat. At Andrés fucking him so harshly, so eagerly. At his cock inside him and his hands so firm on him. Every rough movement, every brutal gesture, is a sign of love. Of Andrés wanting him and desiring him and having him. 

Taking what was always his.

It's a punishing pace. Martín is above him, but Andrés is in control, fucking into him with violence and abandon. 

They don't last as long as he'd hoped, not after Andrés started holding him in place and took control of his pleasure. Of their pleasure. Martín could swear he's been on the edge the entire time, even with barely any friction against his cock.

But as the movements of Andrés's hips become erratic, there is a tentative hand around him and Martín wants to shout. Or maybe he does shout. His lips do fall open at the sensations. Andres's hand on his cock is firm. Driven. No longer hesitant as it strokes him and sends raw pleasure through his whole body, as he's still being fucked with such fury. 

He calls out Andrés's name, a praise and a plea. A reminder for himself. That's what drives him over the edge. 

Martín’s head falls forward against Andrés' shoulder as he reaches his orgasm, bright and blinding. Deafening. 

His come paints a forbidden pattern on Andrés stomach below him, and he immediately regrets his sloppiness. He doesn't hear as much as he feels Andrés's chuckle against his skin, a hearty, beautiful sound. Not a transgression, then. Merely a weakness, allowed and amusing. 

Andrés's thrusts grow impossibly faster, rougher and more shallow, and a delighted sigh escapes Martín as he feels Andrés stilling inside of him, throbbing as he comes. Martín's name on his lips, again and again, like a mantra. He keeps saying it, mutters it against his shoulder, brands it on his skin. 

They stay in the position, simply holding each other, almost cuddling but not quite. Until Martín's twitching thighs nearly crumble under his weight, and he carefully straightens up, pulls Andrés’s cock out of him, and lays him back onto the bed.

He disposes of the condom in his small bathroom and returns to the bed with a wet towel. Methodically, he wipes his come from Andrés's stomach, and the lube from- everywhere. He cleans himself up as well, and Andrés looks at him while he does. 

Then, slowly, wearily, he lies down next to Andrés, on his side, staring at him. Marveling at this man, this god, laid here before his eyes in all his naked glory. He doesn't touch him yet, waits for permission. Doesn't know the rules. 

Andrés turns his head to face him, lifts an eyebrow at Martín's unusual silence.

“What's going on inside that pretty little head of yours?”

Martín would blush if he still could.

“Just... trying to figure out at which point you're going to run away screaming, I guess?”

Andrés laughs softly, and pulls Martín tight against him. He grabs for the blanket to cover them both, then wraps his arms around his damp, spent body.

“Are you taking advantage of the state I'm in to extract a love confession out of me?”

Martín hates being this needy. But Andrés doesn't sound annoyed, though. More... endeared. When Martín doesn't reply, he continues.

“You do not need to do this, Martín, really. My affections for you aren't something to confess, as they were never a secret in the first place. Haven't I told you many times already how much I love you?”

Martín wants to stop himself, but he’s too far gone already.

“You have. You've also insisted many many times what _great friends_ we are.”

Andrés smiles because it's a great joke, yet he almost looks remorseful. Almost. He takes a deep breath, mockingly bracing himself before he answers.

“Fine, if this is what you want from me. Martín Berrote... will you go to the school dance with me?”

“ _Hijo de puta_.”

“And yet, you love me.”

Martín doesn't say anything because it's true, and he won't deny it just because Andrés is being difficult. 

There is a kiss on his forehead. Surprisingly tender.

“I do love you, Martín.”

His stupid heart soars inside of his chest, and he cannot for the life of him, find anything to reply to that. 

And he doesn't need to, because Andrés's lips find his, and Martín wasn't really angry in the first place. He kisses him back, lazily. There is no urgency and there is no game.

Martín fights every single instinct in his body telling him that he’s tired, that he needs sleep, because he and Andrés are cuddling right now, and nothing can justify being unconscious for most of it! 

He focuses on Andrés’s face, eyes closed and a small, satisfied grin on his lips. The corner of his mouth is twitching like he’s fighting back a full, unrestrained smile. Martín decides he wants to dive into the corner of that mouth and live there, in this _‘almost a smile’_ , for several years at least. And just like that, sleep gets a hold of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No _‘Morning After’_ in the notes this time around, it got way out of hand, so it turned into Chapter 2 instead. 
> 
> Tag yourself, I'm the two full glasses of scotch waiting sadly on Berlín's desk.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this! Comments are my sustenance, if you feel like sparing some. Or you can just [ come and yell at me on tumblr](https://shotgun-cake.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's had one of those dreams again. 
> 
> As he feels the remnants of the fantasy drift away, he buries his face into the pillow. As though blocking the light will bring him back into his dream. Into his arms. How intense that was. How raw. That one is going to hurt like hell to wake up from. He might even recall the soft words of a love confession, on top of the usual filthy content his brain conjures. He curses himself for being so goddamn imaginative. 
> 
> It appears Martín’s mind is his own worst enemy. 
> 
> He can almost feel it, still, in his near slumber. Andrés's touch on his body.

The first rays of morning sun are warm and gentle on his face, but Martín is clinging to sleep like a dying man clings to life. 

He's had one of those dreams again. 

As he feels the remnants of the fantasy drift away, he buries his face into the pillow. As though blocking the light will bring him back into his dream. Into his arms. How intense that was. How _raw_. That one is going to hurt like hell to wake up from. He might even recall the soft words of a love confession, on top of the usual filthy content his brain conjures. He curses himself for being so goddamn imaginative. 

It appears Martín’s mind is his own worst enemy. 

He can almost feel it, still, in his near slumber. Andrés's touch on his body. His arm laying across his back. Lips caressing his skin. A warm breath tickling his neck. 

“Mmh... Andrés…”

Martín imagines a delightful squeeze on his waist. Thinks of a soft kiss against his throat. 

“Yes, mi amor?” 

Suddenly Martín is wide awake. 

And very much aware of the weight against his body. His eyes open to a head of dark hair. Martín almost breaks his neck pulling away to look at him. He feels an ache on his throat as he does. A tingle. His expression must be one of pure shock, because Andrés smiles as their eyes meet.

Andrés.

Who is in bed with him. Who was kissing his neck just seconds ago. Whose arm is still around his very naked body. Who apparently now calls Martín _“mi amor”_.

Flooding in his brain, all at once, are images from his dream. Memories. 

“Fuck me!”, he blurts out. His heart is beating away and he feels short of breath.

“Well, that can be arranged”, replies the unbelievable presence by his side.

The vision in front of him is way too vivid to be a dream. The level of detail. The way rays of sunshine seeping through the curtains draw patterns on Andrés's skin. His lopsided smile as he looks at him. His embrace, grounding him. His smell and the sound of his breathing. 

“I'm not asleep, am I?”

Andrés’s face lights up. Martín’s confusion seems to amuse him to no end. To please him. The idea that Martín thought he dreamed him is apparently very gratifying. He’s in no rush to reassure him, basking in the adoration.

Martín eventually brings a palm to the arm still wrapped around him. His fingers dig into the warm flesh, into the palpable realness of him. He's mesmerized. His hand caresses its way upward, across his shoulder, his neck, his cheek. A faint stubble scratches against his skin. Tangible. So very authentic. Andrés closes his eyes, leans into the touch like a house cat. Indulges his probing - his epiphany - with a lazy smile on his face.

“Are you going to be this demonstrative every morning?”

Martín bites his lip. He cannot suppress a smile. 

“Are you gonna be in my bed every morning?”

Andrés opens his eyes again, looks at him like he really wants him, wants everything about him. 

“Perhaps.”

Martin is warm all over. 

Dozens of questions are coursing through his mind. Annoying ones. What does it mean for them? Does Andrés have any regrets? Is this going to happen again? How soon? How often? And how real was that insane, beautiful love confession he fell asleep to?

The _“mi amor”_ Andrés just dropped, quite nonchalantly, still echoes in the air.

Martín is being so needy. Andrés sees right through him.

“Let's talk over breakfast, shall we?”

And just like that his touch is gone, and he's standing next to the bed, bent over a chair and picking through his clothes. His bare ass for all the world to see. Martín almost looks away, before remembering he can stare. He's allowed to. Encouraged.

He closes his eyes, tries to focus on something else. There are noises outside his window. Faint voices and the distant clatter of cutlery on porcelain. Breakfast. Shit. It's later than he thought. 

He goes through the motions, gets on his feet and looks for something to cover himself up. Andrés is looking in his direction, as he's slowly buttoning his own shirt. He's not outright staring, but doesn't avert his eyes either. It's nice. Comfortable.

Martín has been standing naked, looking for his robe, for a good ten seconds before he remembers where it is. On Andrés's bed where he slid it off of him. Carefully and hungrily. With firm, steady hands. Peppering kisses on revealed skin. It's all coming back now. Vividly. Every inch of his bedroom is a reminder.

He really, really tries to focus as he picks up his discarded pajama pants from the floor, next to the door. He slips them on and doesn't think about Andrés pressing him against that door with his body.

Rubbing his eyes, Martín grabs his toothbrush on his way to his bathroom sink. He pauses in front of the mirror. Astonished. So he _did_ feel something.

“Andrés?”

“Sí, cariño.”

“What did you do to me last night?”

Suddenly Andrés is right behind him, fully dressed in yesterday's clothes, looking at him in the mirror.

“I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific than that. I did many things to you last night.” 

He presses a kiss against his cheek, not breaking eye contact in the mirror, and continues.

“Should I be insulted that you’re even asking?” 

“Andrés, I’m not joking. What’s that on my neck?”

“Ah.”

Like he just realized. Like he hasn't been staring at it just now. A hickey the size of South America, purple on Martin's neck. Tingling deliciously. Indecent.

“I might have gotten a bit carried away”, he simply says, and it's all the confirmation Martín needs. So the crime was premeditated, then. Of course it was. 

He sighs and turns around, facing Andrés.

“Have you seen my black turtleneck?”

“ _Don't_.” His finger is tracing the offending mark. “I want them to see it.”

“You're sick.”

“You're mine.”

There's a predatory look on his face. A sharpness in his tone. Like it's not up for debate. Yeah, it's doing all sorts of things to Martín right now. 

In spite of himself, his angry frown vanishes. He feels something inside his chest already, warm and insidious. _You’re mine_. They've been together for all of eight hours, who says shit like that? Andrés. Andrés does.

“You should- you should get going.”

“Is that really what you want me to do, Martín?”

And he's on him again, arms and lips and no finesse at all, like a clingy teenager, and is that what it's gonna be like, from now on? Because Martín can live with that. 

He does cave and kisses him back, morning breath and all, not a care in the world. What's he supposed to do? Andrés is standing right there in front of him, all bed hair and bright eyes, and he’s just meant _not_ to kiss him? Sure.

But then, mustering unparalleled willpower, he disentangles himself from this insane, beautiful man.

“We don't have time. I can hear them at breakfast already.”

“I can promise you that Sergio will not give us detention if we're late for class.”

“First of all, there's no such thing as us _being late_. This is our plan. Class starts when we get there. Everyone else is just early.”

He chuckles at Martín's antics, looking at him fondly. Understanding washes over his face.

“You don't want anyone to see me here”, Andrés realizes. 

He's not hurt, just surprised. So is Martín. Fucking baffled, actually. Because yes, he doesn't want Andrés to be seen exiting his room right now. What a novel idea. 

Andrés kisses him on the cheek, pulling him out of his daze.

“I'll be as swift as a cat burglar. No one will see me, I promise.”

Then he puts a firm hand on his bare shoulder, a final comforting touch. 

“Get yourself cleaned up, Martín. I'll meet you downstairs.” 

And just like that, Andrés is out the door.

Martín could slap himself right now. He woke up to a naked, affectionate, _clingy_ Andrés in his bed, and what did he do? All but threw him out of his room! Admonished him for the love bite that actually makes him warm and fuzzy all over just looking at it. Made Andrés feel unwanted. 

He needs therapy! 

It all happened so fast. Felt like a fever dream, really.

Martín gets in the shower, quick and efficient, hoping to clear his head. Getting to class on time is the last thing on his mind, but he needs to get downstairs. Fast.

From what he's gathered, Andrés would have been perfectly fine, just- parading him around all day. With an embarrassingly huge hickey for everyone to see. To lay claim to Martín. The arousal that this mere thought elicits is seriously threatening to derail his shower.

He rinses off quickly and grabs a towel. Halfway through brushing his teeth, he stumbles back into his room to look for his turtleneck. As he gets dressed in a hurry, he can't stop thinking about last night. About his- _what?_ Not his friend. Not anymore. Boyfriend? God, how ridiculous that sounds. Yet how giddy the mere thought makes him feel.

They don't need to put things into words. It's not like they're making an announcement today. 

Martín knows he's being a hypocrite. That if it were flipped, and Andrés were to ask _him_ to remain his dirty little secret, he would be hurt. He would do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked. But he would resent him for being ashamed.

But that's not what this is, and Andrés knows full well that Martin is nothing, if not proud of him. He just wants to keep him to himself. Just for a day. To have Andrés be his, just for him. With no one the wiser. With no one chiming in with how terrible an idea it is, and how will it affect the plan, and has Andrés lost his mind? 

Today, he doesn’t want things to change. Not yet. 

Even without spelling it out, Andrés understood. He’s great like that. Still, Martín wishes he'd had time to explain it all clearly before he basically kicked him out. Timing was not ideal.

He gets downstairs and rushes out to the patio, dead last at the breakfast table. He vaguely greets the gang before he sits opposite Andrés. How he got there before him, Martín will never know. He's dressed up to the nines as always. Clean-shaven, fresh out of the shower, and yet not a hair out of place. Changed in a pristine suit, his strong cologne permeating the air around him. Martín took longer than him to get ready and he knows he looks a mess. That man is a wizard.

“Good morning, Palermo!” He says loudly, more for the group than for him. “How was your night?”

He's got a shit eating grin on his face, because of course he does. But Andrés doesn't wait for Martín's answer before he returns to his breakfast, really going to town on his sliced grapefruit. He groans as some of the juice runs down his chin, pink and sticky. Martín hates grapefruit with a passion. Yet, in this instant, there is nothing he wants more that to lean over the table and lick it all off his face. He would then stay on Andrés's lips, shiny and sweet as they look. He would kiss him and kiss him again, until his coffee was cold. 

Martín coughs, as he remembers he's been asked a question.

“My night was alright. Went to sleep a bit late. How about you Berlín?”

His voice is embarrassingly broken and he grabs some toast from Tokyo's plate while she's not looking. Tries to center himself.

“Oh, I had a magnificent night, Palermo. Truly. I had a lot to think about.”

Martín looks at him, blushing already, and Andrés keeps going.

“For the plan, of course. I was- inspired.”

He doesn't say anything else and grabs the other half of his fruit, sucking into the pulp in a way Martín could only describe as decadent. 

Martín drops his half eaten toast and strands up abruptly, slamming his thighs into the table. 

“I'm going to get milk”, he blurts out, already on his way to the kitchen.

“Hey, where's my toast?”, Tokyo yells behind him, but he ignores her. 

He rummages through the kitchen cabinets with shaky hands. He wants to scream at Andrés. Wants to get his hands all over him. 

His wish is granted when Andrés corners him into the kitchen. He knows it's him even before he turns around. And he doesn't get to because Andrés wraps his arms around him and presses his body against Martín's back, for the second time today. He leans in for a short peck against what little of Martín's neck he has access to, above his turtleneck. The kiss lands closer to his jawline. Martin melts anyway.

“I hate that you're wearing that thing.”

“You're impossible, you know that? What did that grapefruit ever do to you?”

“I'm a hedonist, I enjoy all pleasures in life. And I live them fully.”

His hands rest on Martín's stomach, and he's really close to being distracted. Again. Still, he has to ask.

“You don't mind, do you? Not saying anything?”

“Whatever you ask, _querido_.”

Martín turns around in his arms so Andrés can see him raise an eyebrow at him. Still, he can't help but glance at the door. Closed. All clear.

“May I ask why?”, Andrés says, and it’s so unlike him to ask for permission. For anything. 

“I don't want them to meddle just yet.”

He nods in agreement, but he keeps looking at Martín.

“And?”

“And I don't want everyone to gloat!”, he admits. “They’ll think we owe it to them, or something. With all their rude, annoying comments. I'll never hear the end of it.”

“That's not what happened”, Andrés objects, his hands on a never ending journey across Martín's back. “This recent- _development_ has absolutely nothing to do with them. If I recall correctly, it was all because a sultry, half-naked Argentinian waltzed into my room in the middle of the night and decided to seduce me. There I was, a helpless victim, falling for his charms.”

Martín cannot suppress his smile. Nor does he want to.

“You're an idiot.”

“I'm a romantic.”

“You're not telling them.”

“Fine. I will not _say_ anything.”

And Martín should have noticed the emphasis on the word, the way he phrased it. But Andrés's hand is sliding really, really low on his back, and he's leaning in for a kiss again.

Blinding light floods the small kitchen as the creaking door reveals an unpleasant bespectacled man. He doesn't step inside, standing motionless in the doorway. Martín sees Andrés ducking by his side, hears some shuffling on the counter closest to them.

“Found it!”, he celebrates, brandishing a bottle of milk in Martín's face - and taking a respectable step back in the process. “I told you that you were looking in the wrong place, didn’t I?”

Martín absent-mindedly grabs the bottle. His eyes haven’t left Sergio, who's staring right back at him, dumbfounded. Andrés finally addresses him.

“Hermanito! How are you doing on this fine morning?”

To Martín’s greatest surprise, Sergio doesn't say anything rude to him. He moves his attention to Andrés, gives him a disapproving look. 

“Can we talk?”

“We're talking already, aren't we?”, Martín can't help but bite back at Sergio. It’s his default setting. His comfort zone.

“I was addressing my brother.”

“Of course you were.”

Andrés gives him a final pat on the shoulder before Martín can flee. He shoves past Sergio through the doorway, his fingers in a tight grasp around the cold glass of the bottle. He makes sure to leave the door ajar and leans against the wall, listening closely.

“I thought the others were exaggerating, but they're not. You _are_ encouraging him.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about, dear brother.”

There is a silence. Sergio is probably wiping his glasses passive aggressively.

Martín nods silently as a row of monks appears out of thin air, right in front of him. They walk past him, some of them sending glares and disapproving frowns in his direction. But they go on their merry way and helpfully leave him to his eavesdropping. 

“Fine, I _am_ a tactile person, Sergio”, Andrés finally explains. “The psychologists would say it's my love language. What about it? Can't a man hold a dear friend in his arms as he helps him look for milk?”

“Not the way you were holding him, no. I saw where your hand went.”

Andrés just laughs. 

“Playful, friendly teasing, Sergio! Have you never been in a locker room?”

And Sergio follows that with the absolute last thing Martín was expecting from him.

“You're hurting him, Andrés. He might act like he loves it, when you're close to him like that. But you can't ignore how he feels about you. I know you love Martín too. But you don't want him back. Not _in_ _that way_. Your behavior- It's selfish. It's only fueling his hope. You're not being fair to him.”

What the actual fuck? Sergio is... defending him? Standing up for him? He's wrong of course. Martín has the mark to prove it, just above his collarbone. That Andrés can and does _want him_ in that way. Still, Martín appreciates the sentiment. He's relieved no one can see him right now, because he’s actually quite touched.

After a beat, he hears the characteristic noise of Andrés clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“You know what Sergio, you're right. I've been inconsiderate. From now on, I will only show physical affection toward Martín in proportion to how I feel about him. And I will make sure he is perfectly aware of who I am or am not attracted to.”

_The little shit._

“How does that sound, hermanito?”

“That's- reasonable.”

“Perfect! We're done then.”

As he exits the kitchen, Andrés strolls down the corridor without a glance to Martín. Like he knew he'd be listening. He does drag a taunting hand across his chest as he walks past him. Andrés isn’t going to make it easy on him, is he?

Martín grits his teeth but hurries behind him, not interested in being caught by Sergio right now. 

Andrés spends the entire day, draped across Martín. And he thought the constant flirting over the past few weeks had been over the top? Turns out Andrés was just warming up. Testing the waters. Even the Grapefruit Situation and kitchen groping of this morning were tame compared to what was in store for him. 

Martín is the one teaching this morning. He rambles on about the engineering side of things, and most of Andrés’s contributions are just appreciative groans - delicious, distracting sounds - and endless words of praise for Martín's ingenuity. Andrés watches him talk about numbers and technicalities with a dreamy look on his face. 

“Isn't he brilliant?”, he ends up asking the class. “Don't you simply want to eat him whole?”. Apparently, no one else wants that. The comment warrants Denver's infuriating laugh, while Martín tries to take control of his flustered self. Andrés was never shy about admiring his mind, but last night’s events are turning every compliment into a seduction attempt. Into a declaration of love.

He’s relieved when Andrés doesn’t sit next to him at lunch, until he sees him get around the table and have a seat in front of him instead. Martín doesn’t have to speculate for long, because soon enough, he feels a pressure against his calf. A socked foot rubbing up and down his leg underneath the table.

His first instinct is to try and get control of his face. Even then, his eyes widen in surprise. Martín channels all of his attention - well, most of his attention - into appearing as unbothered and composed as he can. He probably fails miserably, because there is a grin on Andrés’s face as his toes poke at Martín’s thigh, tauntingly. 

His second instinct - which definitely should have been the first - is to confirm that Cincinnati is sitting at the table, and not hiding underneath like he sometimes does. Denver and Stockholm’s progeny is thankfully at his seat, and Martín prays there aren't any other toddlers unaccounted for. That’s definitely something he could have missed. Did Bogotá bring any of his kids? Did Tokyo have some too? Who knows?

Lunch lasts about seventeen hours, and the fact that Andrés actively participates in any and all conversations makes Martín want to jump across the table and kiss that confident smirk off his fucking face. But that’s probably what Andrés wants. And so, Martín powers through the meal, focusing on being as loud and flirty as he usually is. Wouldn’t want to appear uncharacteristically quiet, would we? 

His next torture occurs during afternoon class. Martín is standing behind the Bank of Spain replica, and as he bends over to point out an element on the front of the structure, he feels Andrés behind him, hovering like a helicopter about to land. 

“Please ignore Palermo, he’s showing the wrong spot.”

And just like that, he does land. _All over him._ All under the pretense of adjusting Martín’s hand, and pointing something out himself. What were they even showing? Windows? Stairs? 

“-and that’s why we’re putting the bombs here, and not there. Is that clear everyone?”

Martín hears vague mumbles of approval, and looks up to a sea of disgruntled faces. Right. The replica is pretty wide, and there is no way to justify the position they’re in, considering three people could stand behind the model and not touch each other once.

As Martín gracefully slips away, he braces himself for the comments and the jokes.

And yet, nothing comes. It’s as if the past few weeks of taunting and torture never occurred. The sheer power of Berlín's horny behavior, way too strong a deterrent. Martín sees them exchanging looks, uncomfortable smiles. They're scared. Good.

Maybe they’re wondering who’s next on the groping programme. Martín sure hopes Andrés isn’t planning to cover his tracks by fondling each and every one of them. Or maybe he should. That would be a riot.

They move on to discussing the flooded vault, and Martín regains control of the classroom, animated that he is every time he gets to talk about this marvelous box where his gold lies, waiting for him. Ripe for plucking. 

He’s actually impressed at the technical terms Andrés is throwing around - and using accurately. Most of which he learned from Martín. Spending years running around in circles, working on the plan day and night, helped him pick up a few tricks. Oh, that swelling pride Martín feels seeing this man, changed and inspired by him. Learning from him. The occasion is so rare now, when Andrés actually allows him to teach him something.

_You will teach me how to pleasure you, Martín._

Fuck.

Martín’s mind went there on its own. He cannot blame it on anyone but himself. 

Andrés isn’t even doing anything remotely sexual. Besides, you know. Existing. 

Moving and being perceived. Looking and sounding like he does. 

Martín needs fresh air. Maybe a cold shower. A dive into the submerged tank to isolate himself and think about what he’s done.

Sergio thankfully takes over the class soon after that, and Martín can return to a state of not being completely turned on by the person talking. He is, instead, completely turned on by the person sitting next to him. 

Which is better because, for a start, he’s sat under a desk. 

But then it’s worse, as the desk also hides Andrés’s roaming hand, firm and sensual across his thighs.

Class cannot end soon enough. 

At dinner, Martín purposely waits for Andrés to take a seat before he picks a spot, as far away from him as he possibly can. Sergio’s eyes threaten to pop out when he turns his head and finds him by his side. Well, Martín’s isn’t exactly thrilled either. Beggars can’t be choosers. 

On his other side, Denver seems surprised as well. But before he can say anything, Cincinnati starts crying, and there lies his priority. Martín just prays the thing won’t scream continuously or throw food at him. God knows he can’t change clothes right now.

By the end of the evening, Martín feels almost serene. They're done with their food, but still outside, leisurely basking in the Italian sun. He’s been socializing with his side of the table, all surprisingly interesting people to talk to, when no one is poking at his leg or molesting grapefruits. He’s deep in conversation with Lisbon when Andrés takes a seat by his side. He hadn’t even seen Sergio leave. Was he bullied into freeing that seat?

Andrés silently drops a cup of coffee in front of him, and leans back with his own tea, eyeing him curiously. Martín’s distant attitude delights him. A challenge, once again. A wall to tear down. 

“And where’s _my_ coffee?”, Raquel jokes, but she smiles as she studies them both.

“What can I say, Lisbon, I have a soft spot for this one”, Andrés says, and the truth of the words is overwhelming. “He works hard, and I know he’s going to stay up late again tonight.” 

Martín almost chokes on his first sip of coffee.

Which would have been a shame, as it’s delicious. Exactly how he likes it. And he's very particular.

In the span of a second, Andrés transforms before his eyes, from a vicious jerk into a thoughtful darling again. At least in his mind. A nasty habit of Martín’s. A weakness.

He takes another sip, trying not to stare. Not to show the state the simple gesture has him in. Andrés knows anyway, but he grants him a reprieve as they’re making small talk with Lisbon and Stockholm.

When the two women start chatting together instead of with Martín, he can feel Andrés getting closer almost immediately. He leans against him and whispers something into his ear. Then he pulls away, leans back in his chair confidently. He starts sipping his tea and ignoring Martín again.

His whispered words ring in Martín’s ears for what feels like hours.

_"What I did to you yesterday, you will do to me tonight."_

Martín is not there anymore. He’s stuck in his own head. In his bed. Or in Andrés’s bed. It doesn’t matter. He’s with him. Fucking him. The act itself isn't even that big of a deal. Martín is game for anything, really. It’s that Andrés _asked for it_. No, didn’t ask. _Informed_ him that those would be tonight’s activities. New event on your calendar tonight. Berlín sent a request for “Palermo inside him”. Please adjust your meetings accordingly. 

That son of a bitch knows exactly what he’s doing.

And Martín stares at him in awe, while Andrés looks back at him with a perfectly neutral expression. Unbothered. It's infuriating. As if he didn’t just crush any semblance of composure Martín was mustering on this beautiful evening. As if he didn’t do it on purpose.

Martín slowly mouths _"I will kill you in your sleep, la concha de tu madre"._ But his mind is already racing, looking for the easiest way out. The most plausible excuse. 

And apparently, they are staring at each other with excessive intensity, because they’ve been noticed.

“You two are sickening, just make out already!!”

Martín is genuinely considering it.

“Oh, dear Nairobi, not here on the dinner table”, Andrés laughs. “That would be simply inappropriate.”

He gets a few laughs. But it's usually Palermo who makes that sort of flirty comments, and surprised faces are looking Berlín’s way. Now Martín feels like he has to add to the joke. 

“Besides, everybody knows I only have one true love at this table”, he starts. “And I wouldn't want to cheat on my beloved Denver, right in front of him. That’s just in poor taste.”

The poor Denver starts screaming, and Tokyo and Bogotá nearly choke with laughter. His clumsy attempts at a retort divert the attention elsewhere. Good. 

Andrés looks at him proudly, and Martín gets it. The jokes and comments _are_ fun once they’re no longer at his expense. Now that he actually gets to have Andrés.

His obscene proposition is still echoing on a loop in Martín’s brain. _What I did to you yesterday, you will do to me tonight._ The words are getting louder every time. So loud, he swears everyone around him can hear them too, can see the pornographic images flashing before his eyes. 

They can’t. But Andrés can, and that’s a whole other flavor of torment for Martín. Being this close to him. Knowing he’s picturing it too. _What I did to you yesterday, you will do to me tonight._ The amount of lust, for Andrés to say those words to him. For him to desire it. It’s about control, more than the act itself. About the pleasure he’s having right now, just watching Martín squirm on his seat in anticipation. Martín will go as far as to call it torture. 

When Stockholm is done soothing her flustered husband, she chimes in with a question about the plan. Martín barely hears her at first, struggling to focus. He still humors her. He needs the distraction.

“-and I know Nairobi and Bogotá will be the ones to go in the vault, but I was wondering if I could maybe practice in the submerged tank, too. Just in case.”

“That's a really good point”, he says, trying to give the shortest answer possible. “I was thinking the same thing. Let's say, tomorrow morning, uh?”

“Really?”, Stockholm replies, visibly surprised.

He's trying to be concise. Not to warrant follow-up questions.

“Yes! Let's get Denver in there too”, he improvises. “Tokyo, Helsinki, everyone who wants to try!”

After a moment of silence, he adds: “The more of you guys are trained in the tank, the more efficient a rotation we can establish inside the bank.”

This is the most articulate Martín can get right now. He's reached the end of his rope. He needs an out. Stockholm is about to ask another question, but Berlín beats her to the punch.

“Speaking of that, Palermo, would you mind joining me inside for a minute? There's this detail about the interconnecting antechamber I would like to discuss with you.”

It’s such a weak excuse. They designed the chamber _together._ They both know it inside and out. And everyone knows that too. There is nothing about the plan they need to discuss privately. Andrés isn’t trying to keep a low profile. Not even _pretending_ that he tries.

And yet, Martín watches himself leave the table, like a spectator to his own actions. A passenger in his own body. Andrés has plans for them tonight, and he will accommodate those plans, or die trying. He’s just a very dutiful friend. No other particular reason. 

In a rush, he bids his fellow criminals goodnight and follows Andrés inside. 

The soft evening light casts a warm atmosphere in the patio. 

Marsella looks on as Berlín and Palermo walk towards the monastery at a rather speedy pace. He slumps back onto his chair and keeps sipping his coffee. 

The moment their colleagues enter the building, now definitely out of earshot, the chatter picks up.

“I'm not Palermo's biggest fan but that was messed up”, Denver comments.

“I know, right! Berlín's _torturing_ him”, Tokyo agrees, but she doesn't seem particularly sad about it. 

“What do you mean?”, Stockholm asks. “I was just talking with them, they seemed alright. Happy, actually.”

“It’s just all their weird... this!”, Denver tries to explain, his arms gesticulating wildly. “The touches and the looks and the whispers.”

“Berlín doesn’t even have to taunt him that much”, Nairobi adds. “Palermo has heart eyes every time he enters the room. Never thought I'd see that in my life.”

Lisbon intervenes, her hand on Sergio's arm. 

“You know them the best. Have they always been like that?”

He just sighs and slumps his shoulders, his hand already reaching for his glasses to wipe the lenses.

“They have. Although I do feel it's gotten worse in the past few weeks. My brother can be... insensitive to other people's affections”.

“What do you mean Professor?”, Bogotá chimes in. “They've been like that for as long as I've known them. Berlín never led him on, it was always clear that he only ever liked women.”

A few hums of approval follow his words.

“None of you are very observant, are you?”

It’s Marsella. Many are surprised that he even spoke up at all, not usually one for gossip.

“You know something we don't?”, Helsinki asks.

“I'll just say this. I am a very light sleeper. Always have been. I hear soft steps on the floor. It wakes me. The wind through the blinds. I cannot sleep. You switch the lights off, I hear the click.”

“What's your point?”, Tokyo asks impatiently.

“My point is, my bedroom is next to Palermo's. And last night, I did not sleep well.”

They all stare at Marsella, dumbfounded. 

“ _No me jodas!_ ”, Denver and Nairobi shout in unison. 

“You’re kidding, right?”, he adds.

Marsella glares at them both.

“We can trade bedrooms, if you'd like”, he sighs, smiling at the thought. “That would be great actually. I am- very tired.”

He does look the part. There are dark circles under his eyes.

“Helsi, that wasn't you? You would have told me, right?!”, Nairobi checks.

“Not me, I swear!”, he assures, mockingly raising his hand.

Smiles seem to emerge all around the table. 

Stockholm's eyes widen, her whole face twisting with a look of sudden realization.

“Oh! I think I just saw Berlín say something to his ear. I thought I imagined it. It was very sweet.”

“They did look very intimate”, Lisbon agrees.

“It's a good thing I guess”, Tokyo begrudgingly admits. “Maybe if they start getting laid, they'll both stop being such insufferable bastards.”

“Amen!", Nairobi shouts, bursting with enthusiasm. “Well, good for them. I'll drink to that!” 

She raises her mug, and soon enough, most of the gang do the same.

_“¡Salud!”_

They're cheering with cups of tea and coffee. Raquel smiles, amused by the childish celebration. 

Yet, she can't help but notice how quiet Sergio has been. She turns to him and winces when she sees the expression on his face. The far-off look in his eyes, staring, but not seeing. Like he's not quite there anymore. This isn't Sergio. This is the Professor. Frozen in place, lost in his mind as if he were making hundreds of calculations simultaneously. As if he were failing to compute a crucial piece of information.

Raquel has often told him that he looks like a robot when he does that. She's in love with a weird man, and she knows it. Who does that? Suddenly switching off, motionless and unresponsive. But it's usually endearing. Today, she's starting to worry.

She slowly wraps a hand around his wrist, trying to snap him out of it gently.

“Ready to come back to us?”, she murmurs.

“Professor, are you okay?”, Helsinki chimes in, having also noticed.

He blinks, and all at once emotion returns to his face. He's alright. He's Sergio again.

“This doesn't make sense”, he mutters under his breath.

He seems neither pleased nor displeased by the news.

He's simply baffled.

This is an unexpected piece of information, and it's sharp and uneven, doesn't fit into his puzzle. He didn't see it coming, and it frustrates him. He's supposed to plan for any possibility, isn't he? Any circumstance? No matter how low its actual probability. And yet, this one has never crossed his mind. He's thought about it, of course. Palermo's every move made it impossible not to think about it. But he's never _considered_ it. Never as a viable option. Not once.

There is no _"Plan Tijuana: course of action if Berlín and Palermo get together"_.

This big, flashing red _variable_ has been there this whole time, and The Professor never saw it. Never took it into account. This has been a blind spot for him. It needs to be corrected.

People are calling his name. He needs to verify something.

Sergio turns to Raquel. Then to Helsinki. But he doesn't speak to either of them. Instead-

“Marsella, are you absolutely sure about what you're saying? What you may have heard?”

“Oh I heard plenty, Professor. More than enough.”

So it is true. Sergio thinks back on this morning, in the kitchen. It is quite clear, now, what he stumbled upon.

Alright, then. New calculations to make. Information to collect. How long has this little love affair been going on? How solid is it? Sergio cannot believe he's even thinking this right now, but he needs this to be solid. He needs this - whatever _this_ is - to work out between Berlín and Palermo. Between Andrés and Martín. Never has a plan relied so much on his brother's love life being perfectly steady and predictable.

Sergio thinks about Martín, and every piece of data he has collected on him over the years.

He thinks about Andrés, his five divorces and general track record romantically speaking.

_They're all going to die, aren't they?_

Sergio stands up abruptly. 

“I need to talk to my brother. If what you're saying is true, it could impact the heist. We have to discuss this.”

Marsella looks at him like he's being dense on purpose.

“Trust me Professor. I don't think you want to go looking for Berlín right now.”

“What?”

“Just a hunch.”

Right.

 _Personal relationships_.

Sergio sits back down, feeling mentally and physically drained. His mind is racing, still, but his body is giving up on him. A conversation for tomorrow, then.

He's probably white as a sheet, if the fits of laughter that are erupting all around him are any indication. He takes Raquel's hand, smiles at her. It's not even forced, never when he looks at her. How long has he been zoned out? He doesn't want her to worry. She should be laughing with the others.

Because admittedly - and without taking into account the very high likelihood of imminent deaths - this is a spectacular piece of information. As the Professor, he sees nothing but the catastrophic repercussions this could have. But as Sergio, as Andrés's brother? He's- He just might be happy. Relieved, perhaps. Pleasantly surprised. If there's one thing he knows about Martín Berrote, it's that he will never betray Andrés de Fonollosa. Nor will he leave his side. Not willingly. It's Andrés who's the wild card. Or is Sergio mistaken about that too? This could be good. This could be great, actually. If they let it.

There is still a lot that needs to be addressed, and he will not be able to adjust the plan before he's had a long, in-depth conversation with his brother. That he doesn't particularly look forward to. But until then, he might as well try to have a good time with the rest of the gang. With Raquel.

As Sergio is visibly forcing himself to bask in this merry atmosphere, there is only one person left at the table with a somber expression.

Marsella isn't feeling angry, or scared, or any particular way about the situation. He's just genuinely exhausted.

Killing people is easy. Sharing a living space with them, however... He feels an ache behind his eyes, fatigue pulling at his skin. And even after oh so many coffees, this persistent, pounding headache. He's an assassin. He shouldn't have to deal with this. If he stumbles upon Berlín or Palermo tonight, he will not be too proud to demand they use Berlín's room for now on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I did experiment, at the end. With the varying points of view and all.  
> Feel free to send any and all feedback on this story, I am all ears. ([My Tumblr](https://shotgun-cake.tumblr.com))  
> I raise my cup of tea at you. ¡Salud! Thank you so much for reading.


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